


Come As You Are

by prestissimo



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Crowley's eyes, Domesticity, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, M/M, Masks, Masquerade, Miracles, Sarcasm, Secrets, Sunglasses, cottage, holidayfic, relationships take work, secretlyvulnerable!Crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-02
Updated: 2007-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-05 13:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5376644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prestissimo/pseuds/prestissimo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale has never seen Crowley's eyes before. Now that they're in a comfortable cottage, he can't bring himself to ask. He can't bring himself to do a lot of things. Until one cold evening at a seaside masquerade party, he betrays Crowley's trust in the best way with a little miracle of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come As You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsunamichan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tsunamichan).



> Happy holidays to lj user tsunamichan, who asked for: "Slash. Crowley/Aziraphale, something sweet and/or smutty :3, It is the artist's/author's choice." I tried for fluff, actually, and came out with something a little different, but I hope you like it! This relies on the premise that Aziraphale has never seen Crowley’s eyes before.

"Do stop torturing the ficus and go get the post, will you? I think the plants have had enough for tonight, my dear."

There are some things about Crowley that Aziraphale will never understand. It isn’t that he’s not built that way, because they started out of the same essence. It’s more a matter of what was lost along the way. Something had twisted inside Crowley, tangled itself in his roots and made him forget…things. Things Aziraphale was heartbroken to discover. 

Now he realises that he enjoys the strangeness of that demonic quality, like an extra spice in their angelic stock. And though he takes sips of the broth, he has not yet got around to convincing himself to swallow.

They are still getting used to one another, but the angel is sure Crowley never does anything truly bad unless the angel is around. And so he’s become fond of the demon’s little wicked deeds, his tricks and schemes, perhaps through contact eagerness. The demon’s always so proud that he never feeds his plants, and Aziraphale starts being proud too. He writes off gluing priceless misprinted blue stamps to the sidewalk as merely a strange obsession with which Crowley amuses himself. He tries to ignore the bleeding fingernails scrabbling against the concrete, tells himself he’s looked away just in time.

He glances out the window at the properly wild English garden they’ve cultivated, sees Crowley coming up the walk. They had a fight, their first lover’s fight, right there on that graveled path, just last year when the paint hadn’t even dried. The demon had stiffened and it felt like he’d left even though he was standing in the snow, and Aziraphale had cursed the jolts of anxiety and panic that made him realise just how much Crowley could hurt him.

It makes him wonder, in these moments when he’s alone and Crowley’s presence doesn’t overwhelm, how and why they are together like this. How, as an angel, he can accept this corruption in his home. He buys plant food and sneaks it in when Crowley is out. He tells himself this doesn’t mean more than it does.

He tells himself they’re not only fooling themselves.

 "I got the post. You have something, angel," Crowley says behind him, and he feels those hands snake around his waist, the chin digging gently into his shoulder as Crowley always does when he wants warmth. "It looks fancy," Crowley adds, with a snort into Aziraphale’s neck.

He pushes away the thought of the demon sinking fangs into his jugular and doing unspeakably messy things, because that was a long time ago and they’ve only fought once since they moved here. He didn’t think the demon would accept a place like this, but if Aziraphale is going to accept Crowley and still buy plant food, he supposes Crowley can accept the knitted tea cozies and still leer at holiday-goers on the beaches. Then again, it could just be the duck pattern.

"It’s a letter from Greeley House," he announces, though he’s sure Crowley isn’t listening anymore, as he’s snuffling into the angel’s hair, smelling for what Crowley called "eau de holy crack cocaine." Aziraphale’s sure he’s never heard of it. Last Christmas, he inquired after it at the store and was asked to leave.

Crowley surprises him by asking, into his hair, "What do those buggers want?" His voice vibrates through Aziraphale’s head and despite that Aziraphale manages to remain standing.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmurs warningly, but without much enthusiasm. He keeps thinking about Crowley’s voice and how it hums against his skin. "We are being invited to a cocktail party."

Crowley perks up, and looks at the invitation. "A costumed event? It’s barely even summer." He releases Aziraphale and collapses bonelessly into the sofa. The angel fights the unreasonable longing he feels and grips the paper hard enough to make his fingers go white. He has Crowley now. It’s all Crowley can give him, is willing to give him.

 "Does that mean you’re not going with me? We were both of us invited. We can each bring a guest."

 "I can’t believe that woman hasn’t figured us out yet. Besides, costumes are always a disaster for me. Remember? Our last one, the masquerade at Madame de Pompadour’s," Crowley drawls.

"Perhaps if you took off the sunglasses," Aziraphale says, and plows on desperately even though the demon has stilled in that way that signals _danger, do not continue if you want to keep your shape._ His heart pounds and leaps and yet he’s still talking to this creature that has suddenly stopped being Crowley and become just _a demon_. "They wouldn’t even recognise you. It might be the first successful costume you’ve had and I promise if you do this I won’t try to reform anyone for an entire month even if you _are_ doing that thing with your tongue and your eye poddy." He’s not sure how he made it through all that, and it’s only been half a year, and already he’s done this to Crowley, said something and made it all fall to pieces.

The demon is still silent, and even through those sunglasses he never, ever takes off, Aziraphale can feel him glaring. Every time Crowley’s like this the angel gets the urge to smite, like a sneeze that you feel creeping up on you during the middle of the climatic aria in an audience of immunodeficient children. Something about the demon swarms up in the angel’s ears like a thousand voices urging him to wield a bloody flaming sword and go snicker-snack all over the stupid rug they got at Portobello Road that first week. That day, Crowley had been…not unhappy, and they’d gone to his favorite sushi bar and the uni was as perfect as Crowley’s kiss, heated and full of something Aziraphale thought all demons lost long ago.

Now as he stares at Crowley, he thinks back to that perfect day, and desperately wishes for a book that will tell him how to make this right. If he could just shake him and get him to see, he didn’t mean it, he just wanted to know this little part of the demon that wasn’t really important, _really_ , even in the face of how the demon Fell and what was it really like to be so far from home? He tries for, "Crowley?" and sees the line of those shoulders slump again. The demon looks exhausted, filled with displeasure and anger, but at least he’s there with Aziraphale again.

"It’s an iPod, angel. Get it right," the demon snaps, but when the angel shudders he’s suddenly holding the angel’s face in his hands, like he’s trying to fit broken pieces back together. "Fine, I’ll go, I’ll go," Crowley says as if he were saying ‘I’m sorry.’ "I’ll wear what you tell me to, even," he adds, and Aziraphale wonders what his face looks like to make Crowley promise such things.

Moments later, Crowley’s elbows are sharp and bony under his fingers, and when he bends down to kiss the taut skin of his belly Aziraphale feels the way he did in those first months, thrilled with exploring and praising and cherishing what they’d failed to notice all those centuries.

"I love you," he says, trying to keep the moment with him, relishing in Crowley’s moan. "I love your hair," he murmurs, kissing his way down Crowley’s side, wondering if he could consume what makes Crowley Crowley if he just sucked hard enough. "I love your hands, your clever, clever tongue…"

He’s talking too much, but he can’t help it, as his hands slide so easily past Crowley’s belt, his suit utterly undone. Aziraphale chances to look up at the rumpled hair, the lips parted, the body in an impossible arc, and stops talking because his mouth is busy and he won’t lose this moment, not when the demon’s surrendered himself to something greater than all the petty little schemes he fashions.

He doesn’t stop looking though, at the smooth expanse of Crowley’s chest, his Adam’s apple hitching with a rhythm that matches that of Aziraphale’s head. The keening noises Crowley’s making are driving Aziraphale wild, to think he’s causing this abject humility, this complete renunciation of all his boundaries and defenses and stupid walls that won’t let Aziraphale entirely in. Then he looks up to Crowley’s eyes, and sees only black plastic, and a coldness hits him in the gut. By then the demon’s sharp hips are pistoning and he’s crying out the angel’s name with something passing for love, only Aziraphale just tastes bitterness, and frustration, and the faint sting of sulfur.

He doesn’t even notice when Crowley makes an effort to cuddle. He just lets the demon wrap around him, sucking all the warmth from his body like a great big…snake.

 

* * *

 

Greeley House is old and not very well-kept, and to forgo embarrassment the hostess has decided to hold the party on the cliffs. There’s a tacky tent, and the sea winds keep tangling with the strings of crepe, coaxing them loose and tossing them against the windows of the expensive cars parked on the grass.

The gleaming black hulk of the Bentley is cold against Crowley’s thigh as he leans, secretly enjoying the way the salty air taste against his tongue as he waits for Aziraphale to put on his gold-foil cloak. They’re going as Night and Day, and the cheap velvet of his dark tunic is scratching against his neck, the tawdry quality nothing like the days when he and Aziraphale dressed in velvet and gold and silk, tunic and hose and cloak and sword. Crowley even had shoes, he was that rich. Now the hose is pulling on his memories, which he doesn’t like, but it looks nice on Aziraphale, which he does.

 _If I could scratch a few cars, loosen a few tires. If I could poison the shrimp cocktail and tear those dresses at strategic angles and make the band play heavy metal and start smashing their instruments on people’s heads and get all their phones to ring and start a wild orgy…_ Crowley shakes his head, reminding himself how nice Aziraphale looks.

"Come, angel," he says, as Aziraphale stuffs something into his drawstring sack. The grass tickles Crowley’s ankles as he speeds through the crowd to the drinks table, leaving the angel behind to greet the Curtises. The wine is cheap, maybe from Abruzzo, some kind of sharpness that stings him and makes the wind harsher against his cheeks. It’s not yet summer, and the chill makes him long for Aziraphale’s warmth, not just of his body but of his smile and the layer of down on his jaw so fine only Crowley gets to see it in the morning light when Aziraphale is still sleeping.

The smile tugs at his lips and he forces the wine down. There’s a faint tinkle of music, something he doesn’t recognize, but he shifts from one foot to the other, finding the rhythm just as there’s a pressure at his shoulder. Aziraphale’s eyes almost glow by the light of the full moon, and Crowley lets his smile splinter, recalling last night.

"Thought I’d lost you, angel," Crowley says, noting Aziraphale’s breath in the night air and the warm press of his hand against Crowley’s back. His eyes are startlingly blue against the white-gold of the mask, and the wind tosses his blond curls so wildly Crowley wants to kiss them, to bribe them to stay still and frame that face he’s grown fond of so much. Instead he says, "do you want to take a walk?"

The pause in Aziraphale’s stance makes Crowley wonder, but when Aziraphale smiles and takes his hand, the grass softens and the wind stills and the wine is forgotten, or at least disappeared, because Crowley expects it to. He’s got Aziraphale by the hand, warm and pliant and smiling.

"What is it now, seven months?"

"Nearly. And it’s perfect." Crowley risks a glance at Aziraphale, hoping that is what he wanted to hear.

"Do you really think it’s perfect?"

"Even when it is, something happens," Crowley says, suddenly remembering the sting of last night’s conversation. "Someone trips, thinks nothing of things left unsaid, and tumbles, you know." He feels stupid, saying this, knowing it doesn’t mean anything, knowing he’s just baiting him with meaningless words because when was the last time Crowley really said how he felt? Crowley shuts himself up as he leads Aziraphale down in silence.

Beneath their toes, the sand is soft and picked with small pieces of white stone. The entire coast shimmers before the gleaming white chalk cliffs looming up above them. Because the path is unsteady, they clasp each other once in a while, stopping and chuckling, breath hitching every time for fear of something…laughing out loud, maybe.

The chalk is soft yet stubborn against Crowley’s nail as he drags it against the cliff. He comes away with dust and pieces of chalk that get into the grooves of his fingerprints. It feels like nothing else, this stubborn yet yielding grittiness. Aziraphale is always so warm, and Crowley cleaves to him, thrilled at Aziraphale’s closeness out here in public, not even caring about his costume as he’s pushed up against the chalk and somewhere along the line there is wetness and warmth and softness.

He wants to throw Aziraphale down on the sand, pulling off his clothes one by one and just covering him with his mouth, sand against their skin and sweat and nothing but pants and groans into the night, devil may care who sees in the party above. But he can wait. Aziraphale likes waiting, likes savouring even when Crowley’s body is screaming for everything at once, more, more, more. For now, he has to wait, until they get home, until they’ve gone through the party and thanked the hosts and Crowley has done that awful polite smile.

Aziraphale’s warm, dry hand is cupping his face, thumb caressing his cheek ever so softly that Crowley shivers, not quite warmed against the ocean air but getting there, slowly, patiently. The unevenness of the cliff face is digging into him, and Aziraphale’s got him pleasantly pinned, kneeing his legs apart and getting closer and closer and Crowley barely thinks, ‘yes’ when before he knows it Aziraphale’s hand is at his sunglasses. 

The panic rips through him and he feels closed in, like he’s falling and Falling and there’s nothing to reach for to pull him out because this is _Aziraphale_ , for someone’s sake, who has never seen his eyes and who never will and who is now tugging on his sunglasses. There’s a strange noise in the back of Crowley’s throat that he doesn’t recognise, and it’s cut off by the gasp as Aziraphale yanks the sunglasses off and tosses them behind, lost, somewhere on the beach.

And then Crowley can’t see anymore, because he’s got his eyes shut so tightly he swears his eyelashes are gouging into his skin, and Aziraphale is holding his face so he can’t look away and he feels so _lonely_  here, on this empty beach with the endless inky horizon and the uncaring laughter above him and suddenly the world is wrong because this is Aziraphale doing this to him and Crowley let him, couldn’t stop him. Not like this.

"Crowley? You’re shivering," Aziraphale says, and Crowley wants to sob, but he’s shaking too hard. Aziraphale’s grabbed his hands now, trying to still them, but he’s still pinning Crowley against the cliff and even though he knows he can break free he’s still paralysed with shock over the fact that Aziraphale is _doing_  this.

Crowley drops to his knees.

 

* * *

 

 

Aziraphale’s ears are filled with the crash of the waves behind him, his hands with the shaking, his eyes with the wounded, broken look in Crowley’s face that he never dreamed of seeing. It doesn’t belong there, and yet he feels a guilty, unsettling thrill. _I did that to him._

"Crowley, please. Look at me. Why won’t you let me see them?"

It seems ages before the demon speaks, and when he does it’s full of so much uncomprehending rage his voice is trembling.

"It wasn’t enough in the end, was it?" he asks, and it takes a while before Aziraphale can understand, and even longer before he can think to reply. "It couldn’t really last. It was going to come down to this eventually."

"You’re not talking about us, are you?"

"What the hell do you think?" Crowley is nearly screaming, but it comes out as a rasp, a hiss too full of grief to voice itself. "It was never going to be good enough, tiptoeing around, pretending everything was all we wanted. Why the fuck do you think I never showed you, all those years, all these bloody years of wine and barely _touching_ and fucking and and…"

"Crowley…"

"You can’t pretend anymore, Aziraphale, I’m a—"

"Stop it!" Aziraphale shouts at him, and it surprises Crowley enough to make his eyes fly open. Whatever Aziraphale was going to say catches in his throat.

Crowley’s eyes are like _fire_ , like a hearth that Aziraphale had kept stoking for a long time but was always afraid of fueling. If an angel’s eyes glow, then Crowley’s eyes _burn_ , and Aziraphale kisses him full on the mouth like he’s wanted to since the beginning, needy and harsh and so far from gentle that he can hardly believe he’s been waiting so long for that very blaze. "My God, they are beautiful."

"You," Crowley hisses accusingly, eyes golden and flaring against the ceiling of the night sky, because somehow Aziraphale is on his back and Crowley has got his hand wriggled into places Aziraphale’s tunic shouldn’t allow, and he doesn’t _care_ , he’s wanted this, exactly this, and didn’t even know it.

"You stupid demon," Aziraphale snarls, outraged that either of them could have been so thick. And then there are no more words to be had, just bites and kisses and hardness, groans and grunts and simple pent-up need. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore and it doesn’t matter. The sand scrapes against his legs because for some reason the hose is gone, he doesn’t know when, and his tunic has been pushed up and even though he knows he looks debauched, down to his swollen lips, all he cares about is surrounding Crowley, sinking into that warmth and never coming out.

And then Crowley _moves_ , and his own eyes turn and he’s gone beyond coherent thought, beyond good and evil, beyond what he thinks Crowley wants and simply into what _he_  wants, which turn out to be what they both want. When Crowley moves again, Aziraphale curses into the cold air and feels himself heat up from the inside. He clenches his teeth and hangs on, furious that he was missing this all along and not even knowing it.

"Fuck," Aziraphale says, and at the sound of such blasphemy Crowley jerks forward with a gasp and Aziraphale sees the liquid fire in his eyes again and something _explodes_ behind Aziraphale’s brain, leaving the sight burned into the inside of his eyelids.

Something, someone, growls, and he has Crowley sprawled beneath him and all Aziraphale has to do is _shift_  before he’s in that warmth again. "Did you really think _what_  you are made any difference?" Aziraphale asks, intent and determined and desperate for those eyes. He stops for a moment, and Crowley’s eyes snap open again.

"Didn’t…want to remind you," Crowley groans. "Please…"

"Shh…doesn’t matter, always wanted you, they’re beautiful, you’re beautiful," Aziraphale babbles, because he’s moving again and Crowley’s twisting beneath him and it feels like he’s just opened a new part of himself he has always wanted Crowley to know. Crowley moans, and before long fingers are digging into Aziraphale’s hips and clutching on to him for dear life, and Aziraphale lets him, rains kisses down on his eyelids and coaxes them open with his lips so he can see the gold again as Crowley bucks and curses underneath him until they’re both shuddering.

It’s only when he melts onto Crowley that he finally becomes aware of the grains of sand, and the waves, and the pounding of his heart in his ears. Crowley’s hand caresses his hip languidly, his body a quiet, shy heat that Aziraphale’s never noticed before. Aziraphale contents himself with listening to the surf and the calming beating of Crowley’s heart.

He ought to chastise Crowley for thinking those glowing eyes would make the angel leave him. For thinking Aziraphale wouldn’t want that fire, that he’d be content to let Crowley vent his frustrations out on psychotic stamp collectors. For thinking he could possibly break Aziraphale with the knowledge of that small scene in the bigger picture of Crowley. That either of them were incapable of learning or changing. He ought to tell him off now, before Crowley gets complacent.

Instead, he stares at Crowley’s eyes as he puts his clothes back on, watching for that gleam in the darkness of the beach that took him so long to find. It reminds him of that first night, when Crowley had been so gentle Aziraphale had forgotten all his shyness, forgotten about the sunglasses that were _always there_. He can’t believe they allowed this to turn into such a big secret. He never wants to see those wretched sunglasses again.

"I have something," he says at least, and reaches out for his drawstring pouch. It’s there because he expects it to be, and he draws out a dark mask that matches his own. Peacock feather eyes, dyed golden, gleam against the night, and the eyeholes are slightly hooded. Crowley’s reaching for it despite his uncertainty, helplessly drawn by glittering, shiny things.

Aziraphale ties the mask on him, and draws a sharp breath. Crowley’s eyes blend in somehow, and then flare into life in brief moments. Only Aziraphale would know they were real.

"Won’t people notice?" Crowley whispers.

 _Not tonight, love, This is my gift to you._  Aziraphale says, "Let them."

That seems to do it, and Crowley nods. When Crowley smiles, _really_  smiles, Aziraphale feels on fire, and it’s all he can do just to keep up.


End file.
